Secret Waters at Lilliwaup, WA by Deby Dixon

Lilliwaup Falls

Shadows and moss upon the narrow walkway into another world

The gated entrance to Lilliwaup Falls

Boy and girl playing next to the stream

Around the curve, under the old tree to the falls

The sprays of freshly melted snow

I romanticize the discovery of secret water dancing deep in the forest, spilling over rocks worn smooth from the continual caress of its cold freshness.

I'm made of fire and burn with it from deep inside and so my love of fresh, clear water has always been a mystery.  As a child, once I learned to hold my breath and go under, my parents rarely saw me on the lake's surface.  A splotch of blonde, a thin wiry body and the flip of tiny, white toes, leaving behind only a splash and a ripple for mom to see.  I prided myself in how long I could hold my breath and search for treasure along the bottom, or simply swim  and feel like the wild wind was whipping through my hair.

Last weekend I had a chance to see the hidden waterfall in Lilliwaup, Washington - the same one that local residents have been waiting years to see - and so ventured behind a tall wooden gate that I'd never seen before and walked the thin narrow plank into another world.

A winding stream running under a bridge, past a house, another bridge, and curving before the old large tree that bends upon the water's surface.  At the end, falling over tall cliffs that formed a bowl, was Lilliwaup Falls running strong from the spring runoff of melting snow.  The crashing and roaring of wetness never-ending - a sound that I could listen to forever, in sleep and while awake.  Small birds chirping and darting from the old tree and skimming for bugs.

As I made my way closer to the waterfall I could smell the forest freshness of newly melted snow as sprays covered my face and camera lens.  Bright green moss danced over dark edges, and evergreens on the cliff glowed in the brightness of sunlight.  Small ferns protruded from rocks and large smooth stones tumbled beneath my feet.  I crouched beside a steep wall, beneath bare limbs that came from somewhere up above, unable to hear myself breathe, and adjusted the ISO, the f-stop and the light meter on my Nikon D700, in hopes of some slow-exposure action in the water and wishing that my tripod wasn't in the car.

Others around me, were holding their breath and walking silently, as if they were afraid of breaking the secret spell, while trying to capture their own vision of the beauty that surrounded us.  Adults stood and admired the scene in its entirety, while talking amongst one another, and dogs lapped at the water.  Two small children playing at the stream's edge, throwing a long stick for the black labrador retriever that patiently awaited their movements.  

I made my way back towards the tree, the curve, the bridges and that tall wooden gate, stopping for images at every turn, and out into the world beyond the hidden falls.

Frustrated Photographer Syndrome

Sandy, you are are shooting in the wrong direction...

The girls are much cuter...

      

Oh look, there is still a bird left on Fernan Lake!

And a mad one in Harrison!

Just some random guy standing on a remote country road with his horse...

And double trouble on Fernan

Deby, it is snowing, don't you think it is time to go home?

Friday afternoon, while sitting in class, my friend Sandy called and said that she had the rest of the day off and was heading towards Fernan Lake to shoot the Osprey.  For a change it was me, stuck behind a desk, when there was blue sky and bulging bright white cumulus clouds adding depth to the landscape, while my friend went out shooting.  Suddenly I knew how she felt.

Still, when class was over I realized that it was "frustrated photographer syndrome" that I was suffering from and that it could be a deadly disease.  I hadn't shot anything, in what seemed like weeks - not anything worth my while - and this feeling of desperation threatened to choke me.  I'd been out on Fernan that morning, before class, but nothing was going on.  So, as I drove down I-90, my D700 rested on the steering wheel while I punched the shutter button.  That was interesting.

And, back out at Fernan, after being tied up in construction traffic for more than 30 minutes, there were no birds, or ones that were cooperating.  I went home and decided that it was best to concentrate on school work anyway.  That is until Sandy emailed and asked if I wanted to go shooting on Saturday morning.  YES!  Getting out into nature and practicing my photography, feeds my soul.  It is like drinking water and breathing air.  I had to go and like Sandy says, "It's my thing."

We headed East, down to Rose Lake in Idaho and took the road to Harrison, stopping to shoot elk and birds along the way.  The days was psycho, going from sunshine, to clouds, to rain and finally to mushy snow.  It was cold and warm but we rarely seemed to notice, particularly when the horses began running in the pasture.  Both of us are hungry for some frolicking equine photography.  The man with the horses was polite and allowed us to shoot him and his horse.  

By Harrison, it was raining, which meant it was time for lunch.

"The rain will be gone by the time we are through," I told her.

And it was.

Onto Osprey and Eagles, fast flowing streams and back to the Heron on Fernan.  My hunger fed for the time being.  One thing is certain though, with my new busy schedule, "frustrated photographer's syndrome," will raise its head, probably lasting until it is no longer possible for to raise the camera and push the shutter.

Calling all Birds with an iPhone

Photo Story laid out with inDesign

(revised)

Home

A few days ago I was out photographing a photographer and he stopped along a remote gravel road in Lincoln County, near a small portion of wetlands where he knew some birds would be hanging out.  He was using his iPod to call in some Savannah Sparrows that he wanted me to shoot but ever since trying out his 7D and his 500, my enthusiasm to capture birds has subsided.  It feels ridiculous to try and photograph those beautiful creatures without the proper equipment.  Even though I've done it well a time or two.  

He called over a sparrow and I took a shot or so but didn't like the background or the sage it was sitting on.  What had gotten my attention was this old, abandoned house that sat a little behind us and off in a field.  I stretched my 80-400 out to its max, turned in my seat and focused on the composition that my brain saw.  There was the sun shining bright on the white building, the old tree without leaves, and the dry grass left over from winter.  The barbed wire hanging loosely on the the old posts and sticks that once separated the house from the field and running haphazardly, capped off the image.  I was most attracted to the bland, gray sky behind the old house and the way that it set off the mood of a time forgotten.  I knew that this would be a black and white photograph when I took it into Photoshop for processing.

When finished with this image it tugged at my emotions and then I knew it was my vision, the one that I meant to make.

The photographer asked, "what are you shooting?"  

"That old place behind us, I'm attracted to the light that is falling on it."

I'm not sure if he saw what I did, he didn't say a word.  I felt somewhat self-conscious about taking the three shots but it was my vision and that is what I'm seeking to find.  He is a fantastic photographer and I admire his work a great deal, but I don't want to copy it.  I want to discover what it is that pulls at my heart strings.

Photo Stalker at Git Lit by Deby Dixon

My schedule said that the "Get Lit" high school poetry performance was at the Kress Gallery in Riverpark Square, but when I arrived no one was there.

And so, while standing around and waiting, I decided to play with the light and forms in the dark space but when I took this practice shot, this woman came around the corner.  She hissed at me when she passed me in the hallway.

After a trip down to Aunties Bookstore, I discovered that the event was actually scheduled at the Empyrean Coffee Shop, somewhere downtown.  No, actually, they gave me the location but I drove around in a few circles before arriving here quite late.

The Empyrean is no where close to Riverpark Square so imagine my surprise when outside shooting the sidewalk activity and the mystery woman showed up.  She saw me, backed up, whipped out her camera, hid her face behind the wall, aimed and shot.  I never saw the little red light go off so am not sure if my stalker hit her mark or not, though, when I went inside she was still trying to shoot me through the window.  We all know how those shots turn out, sometimes they do and sometimes they don't.  I did not like having that camera shoved in my face.  She never said a word to me.

Back inside and looking for the love...

But the sex that these youngsters talked about in rhyme was anything but the stuff made of love.  There were a lot of issues and their poetry attempted to answer their own questions.  I found their poems interesting and graphic.

I turned from the performers to capture the reaction of the parents and the older set of spectators, many of whom were younger than myself, and noticed some grim faces.  Not sure how I would have reacted if one of the teenagers had been my child but would like to think that I would have celebrated their ability to be open and honest about the issues.

And, New York performer, Jon Sands, spoke about another type of sex and his younger years.  

It was much later than this by the time that I left, which was probably past my bed time, or would be if I were a typical older person and not a college student, but this was the only parting shot that I got.

I think that I need to get out after dark more often.

Scott, the Waterfowl Shooter

Scott Fink and Canon

I met Scott at Higgins Point in Coeur d'Alene, ID, last winter when a large group of photographers were out there shooting the Eagles during the Kokanee spawning season. Not sure how many shooters were out there, most at every opportunity that they had, but there was a lot of talk about cameras, lenses, shutter speeds, ISO's, backgrounds, angles and the such. And, as one might expect, a lot of good natured jabs being tossed around.

I was one of the few Nikon shooters living here in Canon country and they never let me forget it.

"Nikon, Nikon..." could be heard in a chant when I arrived.

The day I met Scott, I'd parked me gear away from the crowd but after a few eagles had done some pretty little dancing near me, the guys on the other shore began packing their gear and heading my way.  Mostly, I ignored them.  For a while anyway.  Before long there was a long line of Canons behind me, at least 20' behind me, which I found to be amusing.

Finally, I broke the ice, "What, you guys intimidated by this Nikon?"

Of course, they laughed and from then on I was a part of the gang.  Many of the guys were helpful with shooting tips and Scott and his friend, Tom, were two of them.  Now, I've never seen Scott's photos because he doesn't have a website, a fact that is mildly irritating - oh wait, I did see a pic of a moose in his front yard, which he called a "big bird," - but he shoots for Ducks Unlimited.

I took some shots of Scott and Tom while we were out with the eagles on a brutally cold day.  Scott later told me that they'd decided that I was a player because I was out there in snow, rain and cold.  I'd call it a bit insane.  Anyway, I wasn't happy with the shots so when Scott showed up at Fernan Lake last week, I once again invaded his privacy and took shots of him.  He minded a little bit but probably got over it.  I told him that it was all to further my photography education.  We were at Fernan to capture the Osprey, and whatever other bird crossed our paths.

These are some shots of Scott practicing his passion of nature photography:

Scott hoping that the Buffleheads would come back

Rushing to Shoot the Birds

Shooting the birds

Chimping

Bad Sun, Time to Pack it up and go Home

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Deby Dixon

Walt, the Fisherman by Deby Dixon

Another photographer phoned and told me that the Osprey were "hot" out at Lake Fernan in Coeur d'Alene, ID, which is only a mile from my house. And here I thought that I'd be trying to squeeze in an hour drive in the morning before class, going in the opposite direction, and, of course, trying to make it to school in time. Before the call there were no other options - I had to go. Birds, water, fish had been stirring in my blood for days but the hassles with Adobe (still not resolved) kept me angrily in my chair, behind my desk and on the iPhone. I had to go.
This adventure was not going to be without setbacks. Gear cleaned, some snacks put together, the dog begging to go but knowing he will not and no keys. I searched high and low, the frustration flowing in my veins, but nothing. I got it in my mind that they were still in the car, locked in the garage and of course there was no spare key. My landlord was busy and so was my best friend, who, months ago asked to keep a key because she feared my absent-minded photographer syndrome. I sat at the computer and did my taxes and even put the form in the mailbox. And then I stuck my hand into my jacket pocket, which I'd been wearing the whole time, and there they were! This maturing stuff is for the birds.
Finally, I'm at the end of the lake, after passing a myriad of fisherman sitting beside the road and getting their lines wet. I parked. Two photographers were set up on a dream shot of a Great Blue Heron but just as I was heading that way, it flew. Geese were shooting back and forth and one was trying to get inside an owl box, presumably to make its home in there. That was funny shooting. Bored I wandered down the street and came across Walt, the fisherman.
Walt had countless Fenwick fishing poles, an old red pick up truck, a white bucket and a corn cob pipe. His weathered face and that pipe protruding from his lips, framed by the sun on his other side simply begged to be shot. Walt fishes on Lake Fernan every day, until they begin to put more water into the big lake. And, no he did not mind being photographed, he'd been in the newspaper four or five times.
"Is that because you are a character with a corn cob pipe?" I asked him.
He laughed. "It's because I'm out here early and those guys seem to start first thing in the morning."
"The vultures."
Walt was a cooperative subject, not looking at the camera too much, putting on a show without asking, great colors in his old worn out sweater and lighting that corn cob pipe. I enjoyed our interaction quite a lot, which is saying something for a dedicated birdwatcher like myself. I'd even let a few osprey fly on by. And, let me tell you, that fisherman has a good story!